


coffee; black

by pentaghastly



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Coffee Shops, F/F, F/M, M/M, lavellan has a horrible sense of humor whoops, let's be honest it had to be done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentaghastly/pseuds/pentaghastly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No clean mugs,” she clarifies with a shrug, and he wants to point out that she could probably just use magic to clean them in a second, but the elf is already pulling out a marker and speaking before he can get a word in edgewise. “What’s your name? So I can write it on the cup, I mean.”</p><p>By all accounts, it doesn’t make sense. There’s no lineup, and she’s handing the drink directly to him, but - but she’s smiling at him, and there’s a pinkish tint to her cheeks, so instead of inquiring further he simply smiles back.</p><p>“Cullen.” Short, two syllables, nothing special, but her face brightens like it’s one of the loveliest things she’s ever heard, and he thinks he’ll have the image of her smile in his head all day. She scrawls his name on the paper surface, and it’s messy, jagged and hurried, but she puts a little smiley face at the end and he almost feels sad that he’ll have to toss it out when he's done.</p><p>(He’s falling in love with the way she brews his coffee.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. first

_It is entirely_ , Cullen thinks, _Josephine’s fault_.

She is the one who tells him about the place, after all, about the dim lights and the calming atmosphere and the coffee so strong and rich and delicious it makes you feel as though you are floating on a cloud. _And_ , she tells him, it offers discounts for Order members - although he’s an _ex_ -Order member and besides, he doesn’t particularly care about that, not at all, but somewhere along the way the Antivan woman has turned from slightly-overbearing neighbour to valued friend, and he knows that all she is trying to do is help.

That, and she is an exceptionally hard person to say no to.

(He later finds out that the real reason she wants to take him there so badly is that she has a crush on one of the baristas, a red haired woman in one of her classes who hardly ever smiles at anyone but her, and is too nervous to go alone, and the whole thing is so sweet and earnest and so _Josephine_ that he cannot even bring himself to be annoyed.)

And it _is_ nice, he thinks. Quaint, calm - exactly the sort of place he likes to spend his time. It is not particularly busy in the way the chains are, but certainly not unpopular, and even though the barista with the gravity-defying mustache and the flirty smiles that paint Cullen’s cheeks red is a mage, boiling the water for Josie’s tea with a flick of his fingers, he cannot deny that his friend was right - the coffee is amazing.

They don’t talk much, not really; Josephine studies for her finals, approaching the end of her political sciences degree, and he reads a book that Cassandra gave him - not one of her romance novel’s, thank the Maker, but a guide on how to decrease stress, and he doesn’t really pay attention to the words and the letters start to blur into one, but despite all of that it is…

It is… _good_.

 _Herald’s Rest_ , the place is called, and he doesn’t really understand the name but he makes a note of it, anyways.

…

He comes back the next week.

Dorian - the mage with the perfectly-sculpted facial hair - gives him a scone alongside his tea, says it’s “on the house,” that he “looks like he needs it,” and Cullen doesn’t really know what that means, but he’s _assuming_ that it’s a kind way of saying that he looks like shit (which he does, he’s sure) so he accepts it with a smile and a thank you.

And it’s nice, this little enclave, tucked away in the corner of a side street of Skyhold that he wouldn’t have ever noticed, had it not been for Josephine’s prodding, and he makes a mental note to thank her for introducing it to him.

So he comes back again two days after that, and he and Dorian get to talking - he’s a teenage runaway, a regular-old cautionary tale, but Cullen knows people well enough to know when they’re hiding pain behind humour, so he doesn’t pry any further. He’s a mage (and certainly doesn’t hide it) and, as he puts it, would have been freezing his buttocks off on the streets had it not been for the elf who had hired him.

“It’s a part-time job at a hole-in-the-wall coffee house,” the man says, with a half-hearted shrug. “But it’s more than anyone’s ever given me before. That, and my father would go into cardiac arrest if he ever saw me serving the ‘common folk’ and wearing this horrendous apron, so I suppose in the end it’s all worth it!” 

His words are made to sound sarcastic, but there’s an obvious affection not-so-hidden underneath, and Cullen cannot help but smile.

It appears he is not the only one who has grown fond of the place.

…

The fourth time, he sees her.

It’s a Thursday evening, and the room is quieter than it’s ever been - there’s no one behind the counter and he thinks he might have accidentally walked in during closing, is about to walk out and stutter awkward apologies, but then -

Then he sees a woman draped across one of the booths, and it takes him a moment to work out that she’s _grinning_ at him.

“Sorry! Please, promise me you won’t tell Leliana I was napping on the job - I mean, she can’t really do anything since technically I’m _her_ boss, but - do you know Leliana? Doesn’t matter; all you need to know is that she’s terrifying.” She flits about as she talks, scurries behind the counter, tucks a thick mass of hair behind her ear - her _pointed_ ear, Cullen notes, and cannot help but be surprised - not that there’s anything wrong with elves, there just aren’t many in Skyhold, especially none that -

Especially none that look like _her_.

“Right, then. Can I get you anything?”

He realizes with a start that he’s been staring, but he can’t help it - she’s _striking_ , thick curls and freckles and russet skin and emerald eyes - and then he realizes that she’s smirking at him in a way that’s strikingly similar to Dorian, and that she has likely taken notice of his staring too.

_Brilliant._

“Just, um, just a medium coffee to stay? Black?” Cullen doesn’t know why he phrases it like a question, but the elf seems to be amused, and the pretty smile she shoots his way before she goes to pour his drink is enough to make him forget his humiliation.

That is, until she teasingly asks him, “So, are you the handsome Templar that Dorian won’t stop going on about? You should know, his boyfriend is starting to get jealous.”

After that, the embarrassment makes it’s way back full-force.

“I’m _a_ Templar, but I don’t know about _the_ Templar.” He does feel a twinge of regret at the fact that Dorian has a boyfriend - he hadn’t put much thought into it, but he likes him, he does - although he thinks it’s probably for the best. The man should be with someone who shines just as bright. “And it’s ex-Templar, actually.” His eyes follow the way her shoulders relax after the clarification, and thinks Dorian may not be the only one putting his magic to use in the service industry. 

She’s silent for a moment, and he notices for the first time that there’s music playing in the background - it’s faint, and he can’t quite make out the melody, but he swears there’s never been music before - and in a heartbeat a she’s placing a takeaway cup on the counter in front of him.

“No clean mugs,” she clarifies with a shrug, and he wants to point out that she could probably just use magic to clean them in a second, but the elf is already pulling out a marker and speaking before he can get a word in edgewise. “What’s your name? So I can write it on the cup, I mean.”

By all accounts, it doesn’t make sense. There’s no lineup, and she’s handing the drink directly to him, but - but she’s smiling at him, and there’s a pinkish tint to her cheeks, so instead of inquiring further he simply smiles back.

“Cullen.” Short, two syllables, nothing special, but her face brightens like it’s one of the loveliest things she’s ever heard, and he thinks he’ll have the image of her smile in his head all day. She scrawls his name on the paper surface, and it’s messy, jagged and hurried, but she puts a little smiley face at the end and he almost feels sad that he’ll have to toss it out when he's done.

“Right then, Cullen. On the house.” Again, he’s about to argue, but she raises her hand to cut him off. “Any friend of Dorian’s is a friend of ours. Besides, you did kind of catch me sleeping on the job. Just be sure to leave me a good tip next time.” 

There’s a customer behind him, he realizes, and as soon as he’s stepped out of the way she’s turned her attention onto them. He stands for a moment, watches - watches the way she keeps the smile on her face, even when the old woman snaps at her not to put in too much cream, watches the way her ears twitch as she speaks, up if she laughs, down when she gets back to work, watches the way she bites her lip when she’s counting change, watches -

“Cullen?” And _oh_ , perhaps he’s been watching longer than he thought.

“I - yes?”

“Iserill,” she tells him, with the sort of smile that lets him know she knew every thought that was running through his mind, every question he wanted to ask but wouldn’t for fear of sounding foolish; knew, and likely - hopefully - enjoyed. “Every day but Monday and Saturday.”

…

It’s a Tuesday night after the first Thursday and there’s only two customers besides him - Leliana, the manager, is in the back room, and Iserill is humming quietly to herself as she absently wipes down the counters. She may be keeping in time with the music from the speakers, but he cannot tell, and wonders if one of these evenings he should ask them to possibly turn the volume a hair higher. Not because he really wants to listen - he just wonders if she would sing along.

“Mind if I sit with you for a few? I’d ask Nadine, but I don’t particularly feel like getting murdered tonight.”

He hadn’t even noticed her approach - she’s quiet, exceptionally so, or maybe he’s just exceptionally unobservant. To be fair, it’s probably a mix of both. “Please do,” he replies, but she’s taken the chair across from him before the words are even fully out of him mouth. “Nadine?”

She motions to an older woman across the room - the snippy one from the other night, he notices, and when he glances back to her the look of distaste of her face nearly makes him snort aloud. “I’ll have you know I’m a very forgiving person, but there’s only so many times a woman can be yelled at for an iced coffee being too cold before that forgiveness goes down the drain.”

“So why does she keep coming back, if your customers service is so subpar?” He’s teasing her and from the look on her face she knows it, but the question is real - he’s curious, and from the length of time it takes her to answer he think she may be too.

“I don’t know. Perhaps she’s lonely? I’ve never seen her come in here with anyone else. Used to bring a cat here, for a while, but that was - oh, it must be a year since she’s done that, which is probably a good thing considering Dorian’s horribly allergic. You should _see_ how red he gets, it’s brilliant.” She laughs, and it’s the kind of laugh that goes through her whole body, the kind that he cannot help but join in on. “Really though, I couldn’t tell you. Maybe, despite all her whining, she just really likes the coffee. They do say I’ve got somewhat of a… _magic_ touch.”

She’s wiggling her fingers in his face, and it’s a horrible joke, not even the slightest bit funny, and they’re both well aware of it - but that doesn’t mean that he’s not nearly doubled over in laughter a heartbeat later, that she doesn’t have to wipe a tear from the corner of her eyes, that it doesn’t take them more than a few moments to calm themselves down.

(He hasn’t laughed like that in...to be honest, he doesn’t actually _know_ the last time when. It’s strange. It’s - it’s _good_.)

They talk for a while longer before she goes back to work, about silly things, things he hasn’t spoken about in an eternity, another life time, and when she’s back behind the counter he swears that, every few moments, he catches her glancing over in his direction.

After that, he comes back...well, he comes back every day but Monday and Saturday.

She carries on like normal, chipper smiles and brief conversations; Dorian gives him knowing grins which he does his best to ignore. And really, it’s not what it looks like, not what Dorian thinks.

He’s falling in love with the way she brews his coffee.


	2. second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She's falling in love with the way he drinks his coffee.

It’s not something Iserill goes searching for - when she finds it, she just kind of...does.

Opening the shop had been an impulse decision; once she and Arven left their clan it became clear rather quickly that life inside city walls was not, perhaps, as easy as they had expected, so they did odd jobs, scrounged together whatever gold they could, and bought the dingy little room with the wood paneled walls that smelled almost like a dusty old book, and somehow it all just came together.

They had lucked out, finding Leliana. Arven had lucked out, stumbling across Dorian in a bookshop, and after a heated debate over the truth value of a book on early Tevinter history, the shop had a new barista and her brother had found quite possibly the only person who could match him at, well, _anything_.

(Besides herself, of course, but she would never say so aloud, allowing the other elf to maintain the illusion that he was the superior twin).

And it _worked_. Somehow the shop always turned a profit - perhaps they weren’t as busy as most, but they had a loyal band of regulars, and even Nadine’s bitter attitude didn’t stop Iserill from appreciating the money that came as a result of her constant presence - and perhaps it was not the most exciting life in the world, but she went home to a tidy apartment and a mabari that always greeted her with enthusiasm, and on the rare occasions Leliana smiled they were almost always directed at her, and she watched Dorian plant a sweet kiss on her brother’s nose and it -

It worked.

…

That was, it worked until it didn’t.

(He is not something that she goes searching for, either.)

He comes in late on a Thursday night and she’s not napping, not really - despite all her bluster, she actually does care about her job - but she’s halfway there, head groggy and tired and when she sees him in the doorway she knows it can’t be anyone but him - Dorian has talked about “curly, flaxen hair, honeyed eyes and cheekbones that could slice through metal” enough that she’s certain she would recognize him anywhere, but he - he somehow manages to exceed every expectation.

Suddenly, she understands what it was her friend meant when he said that “ _he cannot possibly be real._ ”

And maybe he’s a bit awkward, but to be fair she is as well (the takeaway cup trick works, but it certainly isn’t her smoothest), but he’s sweet and quiet and he blushes in the loveliest way when she smiles at him, and perhaps it’s childish, a silly little crush based on nothing but first impressions and attraction, but when he tells her his name - _Cullen_ \- she runs it through her head for the rest of the night.

…

After that, they build an easy sort-of friendship.

Easy, because despite the fact that they both stumble over their words, that her sense of humour is equal to a da’len’s and he blushes far more often that should be healthy - does he have a condition? she’d ask, but that seems rude - they’re shockingly similar. In personality, at least; they’re not close enough that either has pried too deeply into the past of the other, and she would love to know all of his ins and outs, but for her own selfish reasons she’s thankful. She doesn’t know about him. but Iserill’s childhood had not been a thing of storybooks.

Sort-of, because Cullen is still a customer and she’s still an employee offering him a service, and they only get about three ten minute periods to chat every time he visits. Which is alright, mind you, but certainly not _enough_ to satisfy her craving of...of him.

( _Shit_ , that was a creepy way of putting it. Definitely not something she’ll repeat out loud - Dorian would probably strain a muscle from laughing at her.)

“I have to ask.” During one of their rare moments together, she’s laying sprawled across one of the plush couches in the corner and he’s seated in an armchair across from her, one of those useless self-help books he always reads now lowered into his lap. She’d ask him about them, but she doesn’t even think he actually processes any of the information, more just turns the pages to put on a sort-of show. “Why here?”

He quirks a brow at her, glasses sliding down his nose, and he looks so adorable that she nearly reaches over and pushes them up herself (nearly, but not really, because thankfully she’s not that far gone yet. “What do you mean?”

“I mean literally, why here? There’s plenty of coffee shops, and I know that our drinks are good - believe me, I know, I’ve got a gift - but there’s got to be something beyond that. You’re here far too often for it to just be about the coffee, and despite how lovely it would be for my ego, even I know I’m not _that_ interesting.” His cheeks have turned a deep scarlet and he seems to be avoiding her eyes with purpose, but he hasn’t snapped at her to sod off yet, so Iserill considers it a victory. “So? What have we done to be so often graced by your presence?”

And her words are teasing, but it’s not a joke, not really. She’s genuinely curious, because Cullen is sweet and kind and handsome and far too...far to _much_ to be finding himself in the corner of their little cubby hole as often as he is. Not that she’s complaining, not even close, but the fact remains that she’d like to know.

It takes him a while to answer, staring absently into his mug, and she takes the time to study him, wonders what his hair would look like if the sun were running through the golden strands, wonders what he would look like if his cheeks were pink from the bite of the wind instead of his flush - it’s a lovely image, and she hopes that possibly one day she might be able to see it for real.

“It’s quiet.”

Well, that was a far simpler answer than she had expected.

Apparently he realizes as much too, because he’s expanding his statement before she could blink. “When I was with the Order, you didn’t have any time alone. You ate all of your meals in a mess hall, slept in barracks - you couldn’t _breathe_ by yourself. So now...I like places like this, where I’m not alone, but I’m not suffocating, either.” 

He smiles at her then, slow and languid and one corner of his mouth, the one where the scar slashes through just at the edges, is curled up slightly more that the other, and it’s the loveliest smile she’s ever seen and Iserill cannot help but think that she must make it a personal goal, to be able to see him smile like that as often as she can.

 

“I suppose I could go somewhere else, but I don’t know if any other shops would give me so many free drinks.”

She can’t help but laugh at that - because it’s true, they’re probably losing money from how many coffees and muffins she gives him without charge; he had complained about it at first, insisting that she didn’t have to, but he had quickly become their best customer, and besides, when she drops them off at his table it gives her an excuse to stay with him a moment longer.

As if on cue Cullen takes a sip from the mug she had just placed at his table moments before, and watching him is a fascinating thing - he closes his eyes as he takes in the aroma, hums contentedly, and the elf had had no idea how he made everything he did look so...so...she’s not even sure there’s a word to describe it, a word to describe _him_ , but it’s entirely overwhelming and she’s beyond thankful when the little bell above the door rings, signaling the arrival of a customer, and she’s able to shuffle away before she does anything humiliating.

She spends the rest of her shift watching him out of the corner of her eye, and she cannot help but think that she might, just possibly, be in deeper trouble than she thought.

She’s falling in love with the way he drinks his coffee.

…

“Do you need a job?”

The question falls from her lips before she can even think about what she’s asking - Cullen looks up at her, standing above his table, and she’s certain that she looks a frazzled mess; she _feels_ a frazzled mess, tangled curls slipping out of the bun she’s piled atop her head, running on about three hours of sleep, and yeah, maybe that’s only two less than normal, but it’s enough to make her feel like she might collapse on the spot.

“A job?” He sounds baffled, and she cannot blame him; it’s not as though he’s ever mentioned wanting a job before. 

(Does he even _have_ a job? She cannot see how he could, considering he spends half of his time at the shop with her.)

“I’ve just got a call,” Iserill explains, words spilling out rapidly, and she hopes he can keep up. “From Arven - my twin brother, I’ve mentioned him, right? I must have - and it turns out that he and Dorian - he’s Dorian’s boyfriend, have I not mentioned that either? well, I have now - are on their way as we speak, taking a trip to Rivain. For two months. _Two!_ Can you believe that? I swear, if they get married while they’re gone and I’m not there - but anyways, that leaves only me, Leliana, and Cole, the darling boy who bakes all the pastries, but that’s no where near enough, so we’re going to need two more people, but honestly no one wants take a job at a coffee shop that they’ll be fired from in a couple months time, and you’re always here anyways, so I just figured -”

Iserill pauses, takes in a deep gulp of air, and he’s looking at her as if she’s the most amusing thing he’s ever seen, but he hasn’t told her she’s out of her mind yet, so she thinks at least if he shoots her down he’ll be kind about it. Not that she ever thought he wouldn’t; he’s quite possibly the most strikingly polite person she’s ever met.

“So. Would you like a job? We can’t pay you all that much, but you _do_ sort of owe us for how much free stuff I give you. You’ve become quite the money pit, honestly.”

He’s laughing - and that’s a good sign, isn’t it, about as good a sign as she could hope for - and he dog-ears the page of his book before placing it on the table (an actual novel this time, she’s surprised to note, and she wonders if he’s actually paying attention to the words), and then he’s grinning at her, soft and sweet.

“When do I start?”

She can’t believe it. _Cullen_ can’t believe it, judging from the faint traces of surprise that are lingering on his face, but it doesn’t matter, not in the slightest, because he has just saved her from panicked, employee-hunting hell, and even though she still has one more spot to fill, she is more than thankful that, at the very least (and it is no little thing at all), she has him.

So she lets out a whoop of excitement, and wraps him in an all-too-tight, all-too-brief hug, before rushing off to the back room to get him some papers, and when she looks back at him she has to stop herself from laughing at the startling shade of red that has made it’s way up to his cheeks.

And it isn’t something she had gone searching for, but she cannot help but notice how nicely it - _he_ \- seems to fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all - WOW, thank you for the amazing response! you are all so so kind to me, and I'm glad you're enjoying this silly little fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it.
> 
> second - I had originally planned on this only being 4 chapters, but I may expand it to 5 or 6, so I'll keep you posted! 
> 
> per usual, all comments/kudos are absolute love xx


	3. third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is to work four days a week, every day except Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, and if he sees the redheaded manager give a blushing Iserill a sly smile when she notes that they have practically the same schedule, he pretends not to notice a thing. It’s not as if he’s going to complain - if he’s being honest with himself, the thought of spending even more time with her is half of the reason why he took the job in the first place.

Don’t ask him why he said yes.

He honestly couldn’t tell you.

Well, he could, but it would probably be a lie. The official answer is that he said yes because he needs the money, which he _does_ , so maybe it isn’t entirely a fabrication. He gets some sort of compensation from the Templars and it’s enough to live on, but as Cassandra likes to remind him oh-so often, what he’s doing with himself hardly qualifies as living at all. He spends his life drinking coffee and semi-reading self-help books; it’s not exactly the most productive way he could be spending his time, of that much he is perfectly aware.

But there’s another reason, he knows. Iserill is looking at him with such...hope, and it’s so unreserved and open, _she_ is so open, and he thinks that the only person who could possibly refuse her must be someone without any heart to speak of. He wonders how many other people she has swayed with her gentle smiles and pretty words; were it anyone else he might suspect she uses her talents for manipulation, that she is manipulating him, but in the short time that he has known her he has known her to be one of the most honest people to ever make his acquaintance. Perhaps she is that way with everyone, or perhaps it is just for him. He does not think it matters - she smiles at him, and suddenly the word no does not exist in his vocabulary.

It’s fine, really. It all works out. He gets a job he desperately needs, and when Josephine finds out that he has once more joined the world of the working she decides that maybe she should apply too - she’s got tuition to pay, and he knows despite her flashy rings that her family’s fortune is running dry - and Iserill welcomes a new employee with open arms.

(If Josie gets to spend more time with Leliana on top of it all, well, he’s sure she just sees that as an added bonus.)

He is to work four days a week, every day except Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, and if he sees the redheaded manager give a blushing Iserill a sly smile when she notes that they have practically the same schedule, he pretends not to notice a thing. It’s not as if he’s going to complain - if he’s being honest with himself, the thought of spending even more time with her is half of the reason why he took the job in the first place.

…

It's a good job. A great job, really, except, the thing is - 

Well, as it turns out, he’s sort of horrible at making drinks.

It’s not _his_ fault, not really. Coffee and tea are easy enough; you just pour straight into the cup, leave the customer a touch of room for cream and sugar, and the job is done. But the rest - the rest is enough to nearly drive him to quit, not made any easier by the fact that Iserill does a terrible job of hiding her laughter behind her hand every time he ends up cursing at the whipped cream canister. 

“It’s hardly _my_ fault they insist on making this thing so bloody complicated to use!” Cullen can admit to himself that half of his anger comes from embarrassment, but he certainly won’t say it out loud - he had been a soldier, for Andraste’s sake, commanded entire armies, and yet when faced with a large gingerbread latte, non-fat, half-sweet, with double whipped cream (and what was the point of all that non-fat nonsense if you were just going to cancel it out with a mountain of whip? he would never understand) he was a fumbling child. Half the time he just got Iserill to take over, his annoyance only growing when she completed the order with ease.

It also didn’t help that Josephine had picked everything up in seconds, even going so far as to take up drawing little pictures in the customer’s drinks with syrup. How Antivans were so blighted _good_ at everything he would never know, but it continued to infuriate him to no end.

“It’s only coffee, Cullen,” the elf had tried to comfort him, although it would have sounded far more sincere had she not been doing a miserable job of hiding the amusement written plain across her face. “I mean, I had never made a single drink before I opened the shop - it took Arven ages to teach me everything. I swear he almost fired me a dozen times, and I actually owned the place.”

“Really?” For a moment he’s actually hopeful, but she's snickering and her eyes are focusing everywhere but his face, and he cannot suppress the groan that comes as he buries his face in his hands. 

“Oh, stop feeling so sorry for yourself, would you? It’s just some fancy drinks, hardly the end of the world.” He wants to tell her that he _knows_ that much, that what he is more upset about is the fact that he is completely humiliating himself in front of her, but he has a feeling that that admission will only cause him further embarrassment, so instead he just groans again. Childish, maybe, but he’s never been so horrible at anything before. “Besides, it kind of makes us the perfect team.”

_Now_ he snaps his head up, golden eyes meeting her own, and she seems surprised at the words as well. Surprised, but she does not take them back, and he’s glad for it.

“You work the register and get the simple stuff - coffees, teas, baked treats, all the basics. And then I take care of all of the fancy ones.” She claps her hands together, probably far more excited than the situation warrants, but she looks so pleased with her plan that he cannot suppress a smile. It does make sense, he has to admit, even if it is still a little humiliating. “See? Teamwork!”

They’re a team. He likes the way that sounds.

…

“See the dwarf in the corner? The one plucking away at his keyboard?”

He does see him - the man is sort-of hard to miss. Cullen has met dwarves before, many of them, and they had always been...well, for lack of a better description, they had always been far hairier than the one currently tucked away in the back corner of the shop, where he himself used to sit when he was a customer rather than an employee. The dwarf has been coming in increasingly often lately, and although he did seem vaguely familiar, he had never been able to put a name to the face.

Apparently he was going to get an answer soon, however, because Iserill is grinning at him, far too excited for the man to just be a normal customer.

“That’s Varric Tethras. _The_ Varric Tethras. As in Tale of the Champion, Hard in Hightown, _world famous author_ Varric Tethras. And he’s drinking my coffee!”

Cullen wants to correct her, since technically he was the one who had given the man his drink, but she’s gone practically moon-eyed, and suddenly the technicalities behind who made what drink seems far less important than figuring out the angry clawing that is currently eating away at his stomach as he watches her watching Varric like...like _that_. He cannot exactly discipher the look on her face, but he’s certain that it is the way he himself looks at Iserill when he’s certain she’s not looking, and to see her directing it at someone other than him is hardly pleasant.

“Can you believe it? I mean, the first time he came in I thought, well, maybe it’s just another ruggedly handsome, well-shaved dwarf, but last night I searched up his picture and there he was! Varric Tethras, in _my_ shop! Elgar’nan’s balls, Arven is going to positively lose it when he hears about this. Do you think Varric wants another drink? Do you think he wants a muffin? Do dwarves like muffins? Creators, I'm so unprepared!” 

She’s rambling on, waving her hands in the air, and he should be following her words but there were a few, just a couple, that were sticking out his his mind like warning signs, flashing against the backdrop of his thoughts, and despite how hard he tries he cannot move past them. He knows better than to ask, knows better than to comment, but -

“You think he’s handsome?”

She pauses mid-rant, looking mildly surprised at his question, and he meets her gaze with equal intensity. Because it’s not like there’s anything wrong with the question, really, anything too revealing - he’s merely curious to discover what the dwarf has that he does not. That is innocent enough, is it not? Because they’re both blonde, both muscular, both have a fair smattering of golden chest hair; perhaps she just didn’t like men who were taller than her? She wouldn't be the first, he's certain.

It’s a friendly question. A co-worker asking another co-worker about her potential attraction towards one of their customers. One of their famous - or rather, infamous - customers, one that he’s not sure that he can compete with. It’s perfectly casual, perfectly normal. Average. Unexciting. Nothing to get worked up about, nothing at all.

Except she sees past him, as always. He honestly doesn’t know why he had expected anything less from her. When it came to figuring him out, Iserill seemed to be the expert.

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford, are you _jealous_?” He is entirely prepared to deny it - either that or run out of the shop at top speed - until he notices that she isn’t laughing, or teasing, or even smiling. She looks honestly and truly shocked, as if she cannot believe that he can find her worthy of his jealousy. It’s startling, that such a smart woman can have not the slightest clue of the effect she could have, or the damage she can do.

He wants to tell her all that, but he cannot find his voice, cannot do anything but allow the blood to rush to his face, to look away shyly, to run an awkward hand through his curls and pray to the Maker that he had not just ruined things too badly.

“You are. You’re honestly jealous.” And _now_ she’s laughing, but it’s less of a laugh and more of a giggle, and it’s absolutely adorable. “Here’s some advice, big guy. On the house: get off of your ass and do something about it. Give a girl a reason not to notice anyone but you - at least, not to notice them out loud.” She takes a step backwards, towards the coffee pot, and tosses him a wink over her shoulder. “Well then, until you figure out what to do with that, I’m going to offer the good Ser Tethras a refill.”

She leaves him behind, helpless in her wake. She always does.

…

It takes him exactly four hours and thirty three minutes to make up his mind.

The shop is closed and Iserill is mopping up the sticky tile floors - the music is louder than usual tonight but he still does not pay any attention to the words, only focuses on the way that she hums along to the notes in the background. She does a little twirl at one point, nearly losing her balance as she comes out of it, and he does not think that it is for his benefit; her eyes are closed and she’s somewhere on a completely separate planet, another world, and all he can think is that he wants to be there, right there with her, cannot think of a single thing he wants more in the world.

She’s a foot in front of him, maybe less. Her eyes flutter open and they’re a colour he cannot name, does not think has ever existed before her, and she smiles and reaches forward, lightly bops the tip of his nose with her pointer finger.

“Come on then, lazybones. If we’re going to be a proper team, we both need to put in some work. You gotta give as good as you get, isn’t that what you shemlen always say?”

Cullen is about ninety five percent certain she’s talking about cleaning up - he really hasn't done a thing to help. But her lips curve up and the markings around her eyes, the ones just a shade lighter than her skin, crinkle in at the corners, and he’s only known her for a couple of months, only _really_ known her for a couple of weeks, but it’s enough for him to decide that he wants to know her for as long as she’ll let him, as long as he possibly can.

Except he’s never been very good at putting thoughts into words, so instead he presses his lips against hers, gently, enough so that she knows he is asking a question, a question which she is more than welcome to refuse.

When he pulls back a heartbeat later he is about to apologize, to stutter some half-arsed excuse and pray she doesn't fire him, but before he can do so she’s laughing, not the one that takes over her entire body but a different kind, softer, more gentle, and when she looks at him it is with a fondness he has never experienced from anyone else before, does not want to experience from anyone else again.

“You taste like my coffee,” she tells him, and it’s hardly a whisper and he hears the song now, some Orlesian love ballad, and he doesn’t understand the language but he knows what the words mean, anyways. 

Maybe it’s not love, not yet. But her hands are delicate when they pull him back down towards her, and for the time being, it is more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> lbr, who doesn't love a good coffee shop AU? comments/kudos are tres appreciated B)


End file.
